The Sellsword (15 page)

“So far you not show any sign to I that Darklady is with you,” Skerish grunted, taking another superficial cut from Rivven’s blades. “Magic armor save you from Gonnas’ spell. Not save you from Gonnas’ hammer.”

All right, then, Rivven thought. She needed something flashy to prove that she was in Takhisis’s good graces. Stepping back in time to avoid a brutal crash of the hammer, she sheathed the sword, lifted her hands, and called upon her magic once again. As she always did, she felt the hot prickling of power deep within her soul, that rush of energy filling the hollow left behind by her commitment to Takhisis’s path. She never heard the mages of the Towers speak of magic in such a way, as an injury that the use of magic temporarily eased. But they did speak of an almost addictive quality to the art, and there was nothing more addictive than the feeling of relief from such an abiding inner pain.

As the words of her spell seized hold of that well of power and brought it forth, her body became ghostlike and insubstantial, almost vanishing from sight. Before Skerish could react, she stepped forward, forcing her spectral hand through the wall of the ogre shaman’s chest and into his massive heart.

Skerish shuddered and stiffened, his eyes rolling back into his head. The ogres in his retinue watched him collapse backward, landing heavily in the damp earth. Three of them called obscenities in Ogre and charged Rivven, but her spell was still active. They ran right through her, tripping and falling over each other.

“Cease this!” she cried, her voice eerie and chill. “I am the Darklady’s servant! She is displeased with you and Gonnas, her consort! Your shaman is not dead, but he walks the paths of the spirits as we speak. No doubt Gonnas will protect him, but even the god of vengeance cannot deny the will of the Dragon Queen.”

The ogres muttered and growled, and the lieutenant who Rivven had noticed earlier stepped forward. Rivven stood before him, wavering, an ethereal mist
coiling from her incorporeal body. She had to admit to herself she looked good. “Are you the second in command?” she asked the lieutenant.

“Yes,” he said. He had some human blood, she noticed, wasn’t as tall as the shaman, and probably had more education. “I am the shaman’s half-brother, Trom.”

“Are you through with opposing me?” she asked him, wondering whether the rotten apple had fallen far from the tree.

“Yes,” he said. “My brother is proud. He is a good leader, and Gonnas favors him, but he forgets that we all serve Darklady, shaman or not.”

Rivven breathed a sigh of relief, masked by her helm. “That shows wisdom,” she said. “Listen, Trom. I’m going to set up my base of operations here for the time being. I’m expecting somebody to come along this way in a day or two, and I plan on being here when he does. Take the shaman and your war band south to Kern, and report to the highlord’s camp. You’ll be told when you can return.”

More than likely, Red Highlord Karelas would refuse to see the ogres and have them sent off to some guard post or another. Karelas was happiest being left alone. Still, Kern was an ogre nation, and Trom and his brother would find welcome somewhere.

Trom bowed then gestured at the prone figure of Cheron Skerish. “How long will he be like that?” he asked.

Rivven shrugged. Her body grew more substantial as she released the spell, returning to normal. “About an hour. Give him a lot of water and make sure he eats enough meat.” She smiled to herself. It was like leaving care instructions for a pet animal with a family member. Leaving Trom to organize the exodus of ogres
from Willik, Rivven walked off in search of some home or building suitable for her temporary quarters.

At the end of one street, near the gates to the town, she saw four figures standing in wait for her.

“Ah, there you are,” she said. They looked like ordinary peasants or common folk, but there was something predatory about their eyes. “I’ve just made an arrangement with the shaman. He’s leaving.”

“That is good news, Excellency,” the first peasant said. “You will not be needing our services?”

She shook her head. “No, not at the moment. Proceed on ahead to Castle Glayward. I want you to attend to the wizard Cazuvel there, in case the Ergothian decides not to show up here in Willik.”

“In which form shall we attend the wizard’s needs, Excellency?” asked the man.

Rivven considered. “May as well drop the disguises,” she said. “Cazuvel knows what you look like. If I have any further instructions, I’ll send them along to him.”

“As you wish, Excellency,” said the man. Before Rivven’s eyes, the four peasants began to swell in size, their features distorting, growing more and more metallic and scaled, their clothing melding into their bodies and being replaced by thick plates of armor. When the transformation was complete, four sivak draconians—as large as ogres, and capable of winged flight as well as being able to take on the forms of those they kill—stood before her.

The four sivaks bore the markings and insignia of the infamous Red Watch, indicating they belonged to the elite forces that once served Emperor Ariakas when he was alive. They were a parting gift of his, before the end of the war and his death at the hands of the Whitestone Forces. She hoped those in front of her performed
better than the others she’d left watching King Shredler in North Keep.

As the sivaks took wing, Rivven chose an empty building in sight of the main gates as her own. As always, she was being forced to move pieces around on the khas board that was Nordmaar. With the information she had gained from her sources, Rivven felt she’d covered all possible moves on the part of the Ergothian.

All she had to do was wait. That, and get somebody to wash away the stink of ogre.

V
anderjack was soaring above the early-morning jungle.

Technically, he thought, it’s this creature that’s doing all the work. Theo’s new friend, who bore an uncanny resemblance to that totem Gredchen had identified back in Pentar, was a powerful flier. With the wings of a dragon and the strength of a great cat, the dragonne—or so Theo had identified it—could carry the gnome, the sellsword, and the baron’s aide without affecting its ability to fly.

Theodenes had named it Star, but it was not a saber-toothed tiger kitten. Granted, the whole mess with the original Star and the circumstances of Vanderjack’s parting of ways with Theo was half a decade gone, and had Star survived, she could have grown since then. But it was very unlikely that Star could have sprouted wings and acquired the scales of a dragon. And besides, though the dragonne’s jaws were filled with razor-sharp teeth, none of them were as long as knives and permanently hanging out of the creature’s mouth.

For the past few hours, Vanderjack and Gredchen
had been slumped on the back of the beast, attempting to recover somewhat from the fight with the girallons as the sun rose in the east. Theodenes regaled them of the importance of ambush detection, the value of his multifunction polearm in today’s economic and military climate, how much the two of them were in his debt, and so forth. Gredchen had been initially grateful and apologetic, but that soon wore off. Vanderjack did the usual and appropriate thing and pretended to be unconscious. Given his broken ribs and numerous bruises, pretending to be unconscious wasn’t difficult.

They were swiftly approaching the town of Willik, which would have taken them another day by foot but was merely a handful of hours by dragonne. The sell-sword had to at least go through the motions of waking up and acting surprised and astonished at Theo’s victory over his four-armed pursuer. While he did that, he took hold of the pommel of his sword, waiting for the ghosts to arrive.

“You have escaped the apes,” said the Aristocrat.

“You almost didn’t,” said the Cavalier.

“Didn’t we say jump often enough?” asked the Balladeer.

“You need to see a healer,” said the Apothecary.

Vanderjack, at the rear of the dragonne’s back, listened to the ghosts harangue him for a few minutes. The Cook hovered there among them, not saying anything, but the sellsword was admittedly glad to hear their heckling voices.

“… which is why you cannot ignore us,” the Philosopher was saying.

“You know,” Vanderjack said, under his breath. “I’ve missed this. I’m sure I’ll be sick of it again soon, but I’ve missed it.”

The Sword Chorus responded with more comments and opinions. Vanderjack focused on the Cook. He said, “Etharion?”

“Vanderjack,” the Cook responded.

“I, uh.”

“Now probably isn’t the time,” said the Balladeer.

“Right,” said the sellsword. “Probably not. But we have things to, uh, discuss.”

“I’ll be around,” the Cook said. “I have some questions for you too. You see, I’m not—”

“Later,” said the Aristocrat, cutting Etharion off. “They are descending.”

Vanderjack looked over the side of the dragonne, who was apparently conversing with Theodenes and Gredchen while Vanderjack spoke with the Sword Chorus. He wondered if he’d been overheard talking with the unseen ghosts. “We’re there?” he asked loudly.

Gredchen looked back over his shoulder. “Oh, you’re awake. Were you talking in your sleep?”

Vanderjack shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Weak comeback,” chided the Balladeer.

Vanderjack added, “Or maybe my unconscious self provides me with more enlightening conversation than you and the gnome.” He winked at her, letting go of the sword’s pommel.

Gredchen colored and said, “Fine. Be like that. Yes, we’re here.”

Vanderjack stretched then winced as pain shot through his chest. “Theo. Tell … Star to put us down outside Willik, about a half mile. If this town’s under the thumb of that ogre shaman, he’s going to have a lot of ogre friends with him, and we don’t want to just land in the middle of that.”

The gnome stroked his short, pointed beard briefly
then nodded. “A wise choice of action,” he said. “Rare as that is.”

Vanderjack rolled his eyes and turned back to Gredchen. “Has your employer had dealings with this Skerish character before?”

She shook her head. “An ogre? Unlikely. Willik is fully within the territory claimed by Highlord Karelas and overseen by Rivven Cairn. They wouldn’t allow it.”

“If he’s a shaman, what power do they have over him? I would have thought he’d be claiming independence to do the work of the Dark Queen or somebody like that.”

“I heard that Rivven Cairn opened up Willik for him,” she said. “Before she arrived in Nordmaar a decade ago, Willik was a spice merchant’s town on the King’s Road to the west. I suppose she thought he’d make a good governor.”

Vanderjack frowned. “Cairn’s the one in charge of Captain Annaud’s little faction, isn’t she?”

Gredchen nodded. “Yes. She occasionally visits Lord Glayward to remind him where he is, put him in his place. The baron is far too proud to let that worry him.”

It dawned on Vanderjack that Annaud’s group may have had survivors, and they would be telling the highmaster all kinds of things about him. “It might be a mistake for me to go into Willik,” he said.

“Who said that you were going to go in?” Gredchen said with a smile, which came off more like a grimace. “No offense, Vanderjack, but you’re one of the most recognizable mercenaries in the region.”

“You might say that. But on the other hand I’m really in need of a healer, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Gredchen paused while Star dropped below the trees,
tucking his wings in and landing with barely a thump on a dense mat of vegetation some distance away from a crop of carved boulders. She slid off the dragonne’s back and continued. “Listen, I know you’re hurt, but you’re under contract with the baron. I’m his agent, and the reason I’m along with you is because I need to make sure his wishes are being carried out. Best if you stay behind and rest up.

“So I’m going in myself and you’re staying here. You’ve been in military service long enough to be able to do your own field dressing, haven’t you? We can bring healing tools and supplies back with us.”

Vanderjack pointed at Theodenes the gnome, who was talking quietly with his new friend. Star’s voice was deep and resonant, and at the moment the strange creature was speaking in a language Vanderjack had never managed to pick up—the language of dragons. “What about Theo?”

“He can come with me.”

“So I’m staying here alone in the jungle?” Gredchen smiled again. “You won’t be lonely. Star’s here!”

Vanderjack exhaled. “I think I’ll try to sleep my injuries off,” he said and started looking around the clearing for a likely spot to sit.

“So we’re to visit the town?” Theodenes asked, coming over. “Star has agreed to stay with us for the time being.”

“Star can stay with Vanderjack,” Gredchen told the gnome. “They can get acquainted.”

Theodenes stiffened slightly. Vanderjack noticed, and shook his head. “What now?”

“The last time I gave a feline companion of mine named Star over to your safekeeping, I never saw her alive again.”

Vanderjack indicated the dragonne. “Does he look like a saber-toothed kitten to you?”

Theodenes jabbed a finger in the sellsword’s direction and said, “Just watch yourself.”